


The Sorcerer's Apprentice

by MJ (mjr91)



Category: Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry reminds Bob of one of his former apprentices.  And then again, maybe he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sorcerer's Apprentice

The dark woman pulled the hood of her cloak down, exposing twin plaits of long, dark hair. She drew a large bottle from under the cloak and handed it across to the black-caped man who stood before her. "Thank you for coming, Hrothbert of Bainbridge."

"No need to thank me, my Lady Morgana. We are all in this together, and you needed a hand." He took the bottle, its color apparently black in the moonless forest around them.

"Still, since Caermaurn broke his leg, without your presence we could not have completed the rituals. I thank you, again, and it is only right that you should take your share of the mistletoe elixir. You, too, make potions for the wasting illness for those who have it, and that cannot be done without this."

Hrothbert nodded solemnly and placed the bottle in a saddlebag on the flank of a chestnut mare. "Then I must thank you as well, Lady Morgana. The rest of us are reliant upon your Druid medicine."

Another Druid of indistinguishable gender beneath their cloak handed a jug to the priestess. "Here is water for your travel, Hrothbert, and another jug for your apprentice. Cerridwen has watered and fed your horses already. May the gods grant you a safe journey."

Hrothbert bowed, cuffing the thin, pale apprentice at his side to force him to do the same. "Blessings to you and your brethren, Morgana of Oakmere. May the spirits of your forest shelter you from the demons of the North. Send word when you need me." He mounted his horse, as his apprentice clambered ungracefully upon a smaller one, and followed the trail out of the forest."

The younger man turned to Hrothbert as his colt came up beside the chestnut at the edge of the ancient oak trees. "Why do you bother with them? Surely sorcerers' magic is far greater than theirs. They pick herbs and distill them, they make offerings to powerless old gods, they use no swords to bind demons to their bidding – what is the purpose of wasting our time with these fools?"

Hrothbert debated the wisdom of cuffing his student on the spot, but the boy still might have some use even if his brain was – as seemed obvious – smaller than the seeds the Druids sowed every spring. "First, their herbs are useful to me. This mistletoe makes enough potion for victims of wasting illness to pay me a considerable sum of money – and I am sure you do not dispute the value of gold, Godfrey. Second, as you evidently failed to notice, they do have power, and so does whatever or whoever it is that they worship. It always pays to be on the right side of someone who has power. Third, they respect me, and it is polite to show the same deference to them when they have done nothing to cause you ill. Finally, you fool, in case you have failed to notice, we live on the wrong side of the Church, the wrong side of the King, and the wrong side of all who fear the powers we command. Worse yet, those of us who traffic with demons are also on the wrong side of a good many others of our own ilk. Any other magical folk who are willing to be your allies must be cultivated as far as possible. Keep that in mind should you ever determine to value your own neck."

They rode silently until they came to an inn. Home was not far, but it was late, and Hrothbert's other apprentice, Godfrey's older and more gifted cousin, was keeping the property tended – and, Hrothbert fervently hoped, not calling up any spirits he was not yet equipped to send back down. It would be only a short ride in the morning.

Besides, an apprentice had multiple uses. Even one not well versed, or even virtually inept, at magic was still a likely candidate for serving one's wine or ale while working, or for serving one's dinner, tending one's animals, or warming a bed. Godfrey's limitations were many, and his lack of grace made him a poor choice for serving drink, but it took very little skill or brain to keep a man's bed warm for him. And if he left Hrothbert's service with the ability to conjure a minor spirit or two and to mix a few herbal healing potions or salves without immediately killing the client, he could find a living in some village eventually.

It was difficult to find a good apprentice – one who had native talents, literacy, and the willingness to study long into the night, reading copies of Hrothbert's manuscripts – the book of Abra-Melin, the lost books of Moses, the Grand Grimoire, or the dread grimoire said to have been put to parchment by Honorius of Thebes. Fewer yet were willing to attempt the Hermetic texts of Trismegistus, or the difficult Hebrew of the Jews' Zohar. Hrothbert had spent years poring over them, not only under the watchful eye of the sorcerer who had begun his training, but alone at night, and on the road while traveling. He had guarded his copy of the Honorius from thieves in more than one port while he had sailed in search of further knowledge, and had guarded it from brigands on the road while he wandered dusty paths to and from his homes, in search of ever more knowledge, more mystical powers. He had crossed the controlling magical leaders of more than one place, and more than once in each place he had visited, but was there not always more to know?

Apprentices usually did not think so. Apprentices wanted years of study, years of effort, years of trial, error, and massive, immensely dangerous mistakes, distilled into ten easy lessons. Apprentices wanted a stock of love potions and astrological talismans to sell to the nearest customer – what did they care for hours of midnight conversation with demons, or the conjuring of djinn fairer than the Queen herself, willing to do a sorcerer's bidding of any sort and then to vanish without trace, or the learning of the inner worlds from elementals desirous of a sorcerer's affections in order to gain human souls for themselves? Nothing, apparently. No wonder most of them were fit for little more than a night's amusement from time to time to drive away the pain they caused him in their studies during the day.

* * *

"Again, Harry."

The sixteen-year old looked up from the chalkboard. "I don't understand, Bob. It doesn't make any sense."

Hrothbert of Bainbridge, "Bob" to his pupil, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. How many thousands of years would it be until apprentices changed? This one would never be a genius, that much was apparent, but nonetheless he had natural Morningway talents and that, at least, counted for something. "The sigil doesn't need to make sense to you at this point. The important thing is that it makes sense to the spirit it is required to summon. The Greater Key is astrologically based. The talisman in front of you on the page will summon the spirits of the Moon to open any lock. You only need to know what it does – it is the spirits who have to know that it compels them to open the lock. You do not have to be able to read it. However, if you compare it to the other talismans in the Key, you will see that it is, by its shape, at least easily distinguishable from the others."

Harry nodded.

"Draw it again, Harry – and this time, please keep the drawing legible. It doesn't matter if you write in English, in Hebrew, in Theban, or in angelic script – the being that has to look at it has to be able to identify what you want."

"Can't I write it in Ogham? That's easier, it's just long and short lines."

"Harry…" Bob drawled out his frustration by turning the name into a three-syllable word. "You're going to write a Hebraic inscription on a Hebraic astrological talisman in a Celtic script. That's brilliant. I think we should also celebrate a major Celtic lunar festival or two by invoking cannibalistic Mayan solar deities. You might as well invite the local Nazi party to a bar mitzvah. Do it properly or don't do it, and don't offend one set of spirits with the trappings of another. Again. Properly."

Bob took a deep breath – he sometimes had to remind himself that Harry was not the worst of his students; it was just that at this juncture, Harry was his only student. And he was, despite any failings, still a far better pupil than… what was his name… ah, yes, Godfrey. It had been over a century since he'd thought of Godfrey. The boy had only one legitimate purpose in the household of Hrothbert of Bainbridge – and for that matter, hadn't even been reasonably attractive, just someone to keep him occupied at night when better failed to be at hand. He'd been a student long before Hrothbert had met Winifred, and had gone off to try his hand at minor magic along the southwest coast near Tintagel. Love charms, astrological planting advice, and probably the occasional herbal abortion, no doubt, were the bulk of Godfrey's professional skills on his own. Whatever had befallen the dunce, he had earned it. Even if Justin Morningway had not bound Hrothbert of Bainbridge to servitude, Harry Dresden would have been a perfectly reasonable, if not dazzling, student compared to many.

On the other hand, given all circumstances, it was best not to look too often at the chalkboard over young master Dresden's shoulder when teaching him. The posterior view was interesting enough that Bob's relative incorporeality was probably a good thing. Hrothbert of Bainbridge had once had far less attractive, as well as even less intelligent, apprentices to keep him warm. Now there was no chance that any living student, regardless of attraction or intelligence, could offer him that possibility. 

And it was, after all, better not to cross Justin Morningway. Bob neither respected him nor had the slightest affection for the man, but he was in no position to do anything about that. The sorcerer had studied people, as well as the later magical texts, for centuries, and Morningway was a rich, well-dressed thug and a bully. One's predilections were best kept to oneself in such circumstances. The last man Bob had known who shared Morningway's general loathsomeness had been Gilles de Rais. For all of de Rais' acquaintance with Jeanne d'Arc, he had still enjoyed abusing and torturing young boys while working on his alchemical experiments. It had been no pleasure for Bob to work on de Rais' quest for a magical fortune while de Rais satisfied himself elsewhere with death on his hands. He had been one not to be crossed, either.

Bob forced his mind off of Morningway's foulness and his nephew's potential attractions, and set himself back to the task of reviewing Harry's work. "Much better, Harry. However, watch your spelling. I realize it's more difficult in another alphabet, but you need to be exact. Magic is no less dangerous, done incorrectly, than wiring a house for electricity sloppily. Many a sorcerer's lost his life over misspellings and mispronunciations. Which reminds me that tomorrow we need to review your Latin."

* * *

Harry was off on another one of his wild goose chases with Murphy, which left Bob free to work on the serious end of Harry's current problem – deciphering the symbols found near the dead woman's body… if one could call it a woman. The fangs and claws argued against it, as did the feathers, but no doubt the Chicago police would attempt to find some completely idiotic "rational explanation" for the being's presence. Bob's own suspicion was that someone had taken down a harpy – a very bad thing since the rest of her band would no doubt want revenge, and en masse, if he was right.

Being ghostly had its drawbacks, but he could still turn a page in a grimoire. Which one, however? Something vaguely Greco-Egyptian sounded likely. Hermetic? Theban? Theban texts were always good for something, even if only the occasional chuckle – perhaps he would start with Honorius. Harry had never really studied the original texts sufficiently – a child of ten with a magical background, for instance, should have recognized the signs of a hand of glory in use, but Bob had been forced to educate Harry only six months before. Perhaps it was Bob's own fault that Harry was short on so many essentials. Harpies, however, were a bit less basic. No shame in one's mind not going there on the spot.

He eased a printed copy of the manuscript – movable type had been a magnificent invention, had it not – and sent a slow breeze flipping through the pages as it lay on one of Harry's tables. It was not exactly what he sought, perhaps not at all what he needed, but nostalgia laid a claim on Bob's sight and mind. He nearly missed Harry's return to the shop in the midst of his reading.

"You find anything?" Harry inquired, peeling off his jacket and tossing it in a corner.

"I know what it is, I believe, although I have not yet found the text I'm seeking to verify it," Bob replied, moving away from the table. "There is, as I recall, a great deal about harpies in Greek and Roman literature, though the magical references are rather slight – unless you classify Shakespeare as a magician rather than a Rosicrucian. I'm quite tired, by the way, of the Francis Bacon debate. As I distinctly recall at the time, Bacon was quite sufficiently occupied in Her Majesty's government to have no time to write, and when I first encountered William Shakespeare I was quite struck by –"

"Harpies," Harry finished, cutting off Bob's budding anecdote. "There's a scene in one of his plays – I remember that from your pontifications on Elizabethan magic when I was a teenager."

Bob beamed. "I'm pleased to see that your entire education wasn't thoroughly wasted. You do still remember something I taught you."

Harry slid into a chair. "I haven't forgotten everything. I did pay attention occasionally."

"I'm delighted to see that. I've thought lately that the only thing you pay attention to is Detective Murphy."

Bob's former student looked up at his mentor. "You sound jealous, Bob."

"Jealous?" A hand waved in the air. "Why should I be jealous? Just because you go off gallivanting with the fair lady detective, risking your life, leaving me at home to do research for you and to remind you of details you should have learned when you were twelve?"

Harry's face lit up. "My god, Bob, you are jealous."

"Let's just say that you've kissed her, and not me. With the worst excuse, I may add, I have ever heard anyone give me for a kiss in my entire existence."

A chuckle. "One of the other things I remember learning was that I could always tell when you were staring at my ass. I used to move around a lot to see what you'd do."

Bob sank into a comfortable moroseness. "Worse yet, now I find out you're a tease." He moved to pinch his nose, then held back. "You really knew I was, er…"

"Checking the goods? You weren't that subtle, Bob. I kept waiting to see if you'd do anything, though I couldn't figure out what it would be. In fact, I'm still not sure."

"Harry, you have ignored more of my detailed explanations of spirits and demons than most wizards have ever even heard. It is ludicrously easy not only to summon some of them, but to take control of them – it's how your uncle created that duplicate of himself that I had to work with when…" That was enough said about that. "And incubi are particularly, and pathetically, easy to handle if one only knows what they're doing."

"Most people don't," Harry observed, fascinated.

"Harry Dresden, I am hardly 'most people' and I will thank you to remember it. Now, I can provide you with an ample demonstration that I'm quite certain will cause you to cease kissing Detective Murphy entirely, or I can give you a comprehensive lecture on the natural and supernatural predators of the harpy. It's entirely your choice."

Harry looked at Bob thoughtfully. "So you're saying you can create a perfectly solid incubus that is a physical clone of you and place your mind into it?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Bob, that is without doubt the most astonishingly kinky thing I have ever heard."

Bob bowed slightly. "Your loyal servant." The words had even more of an amused edge to them than they usually did when he gave the familiar reply rather than a simple "you're welcome."

"Uh… who's on top?"

Bob couldn't help a smirk, although he managed to suppress the chuckle that nearly accompanied it. "I am yours to command."

"Now you're really getting kinky."

"I do aim to please."

"Uh, Bob, I only kissed Murphy to get her to slap me in the face."

"Which means?" Bob tapped his foot silently against the floor.

"I'll take a raincheck on the harpy lecture."

Bob smiled. Some things never changed over the centuries. "Anything to avoid learning something you don't have to, I see. Bedroom, Harry."

Harry headed for the steps, far ahead of Bob.

Apprentices. Still the same as ever. Just like… like…

Godfrey, oh, yes. He'd almost forgotten the name again. That one had been nothing but trouble. Of course, Harry was nothing but trouble either… but a much better choice.

Now, if only that incubus trick was as easy to pull off as he'd just claimed. Still, it ought to be simple enough. He really should quit bragging first and working out the spells later… some century or another.


End file.
